


Lost and Found

by PoisonAppleTree



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Minor Violence, OT3 friendship, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-17 01:17:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1368610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoisonAppleTree/pseuds/PoisonAppleTree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos life from losing a brother-in-blood to gaining two brothers-in-arms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What's in a Name

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written because I needed like two paragraphs explaining my headcanon of Athos' past in a story I was writing and it turned out at around 5,000 words and counting, so I decided to make it it's own story. I've never done the writing bit of fanfiction before, I'm mostly a consumer, and I haven't written anything in three years. Also I don't have anyone to beta and my dyslexic mind didn't want to cooperate, so all feedback is welcome and cherished. Hope you enjoy, and I'll try to update regularly.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Athos takes a swan dive into alcoholism.

Five years ago, when his brother was murdered and he had had a noose put around his wife neck, Athos had turned tail and ran, staying only long enough to see the her weight pull the rope tight. In retrospect he could have done with staying a _little_ longer, it would have saved them all a lot of trouble. But in his heart of hearts he knew he couldn’t have, the wounds where still too fresh. He couldn’t even look at the house where they had been happy together, where they had loved each other, where Thomas had…

No, he would never have been able the watch the life go from her eyes. And she would have kept staring into his till it was done; she had no mercy in that respect. So he had run, like a coward chased by her memory, and not looked back.

~*~

Paris had simply been the closet city with enough taverns for him to drown himself in anonymously. He hadn’t planned on staying, hadn’t planned on much to be honest, save drinking himself into a stupor deep enough to numb the pain.

Every day was the same; he would drag himself out of wherever he had collapsed the night –or in some cases the morning – before around noon, hung-over and miserable, then head to the nearest source of wine. It would take him quite a while to get sufficiently drunk, much longer than it used to. Annoyingly near constant alcoholism seemed to have given his a higher tolerance for the stuff. But he would always be lost to the drink by the time darkness came. Then he would pull out her locket and look at the flower she had pressed for him, ‘ _the memory of a perfect day’._ And then he’d drink some more, and more again, until he either stumbled back to his room or was kicked out, in which case he would probably pass out in the street.

He’d had spent more night in the gutter than he cared to admit. Luckily he hadn’t looked like a Comte anymore otherwise more people might have tried rob him. His embroider jerkin had been practically torn in two in a bar fight during the week he arrived –that was also, incidentally, the first establishment he’d ever been thrown out of, but not the last – and he now only wore his shirt and brown cloak to keep out the chill. Neither had been washed since he arrived, and after two months they looked a little worse for wear. As did he, by all accounts; his scruffy, untrimmed beard, red eyes and pale, dirty skin tended to keep people away. So, wandering the streets after the drink had stolen the last of his grace and fine speech, there was really nothing left of the nobility he was born as to identify him.

Still there had been attempts. There were those that were easily discouraged, like the pick pocket who lost the end of his finger when he’d accidently woken his mark. He had felt guilty for that one, it had been purely instinct and the boy did look half starved, but it kept the rest of the street urchins away for a while. A couple of weeks after that there had been a man, whom, looking back on it, he was almost entirely sure was not after money. But he gave up quickly realising Athos may be dunk, but he was never defenceless, and always looking for somewhere to pore his rage.

More serious things had happened too. One night he was drinking, as always, in a little place by the Seine. There was a group of soldiers in, the King’s guard, celebrating a new member joining their ranks and they were loud, especially the one they were drinking to. He was a mountain of a man, whose laugh, Athos was certain, half of Paris could hear. He bore it as long as he could, but Athos was a man who like quiet, or at least quieter than this, for drowning his sorrows in. He had a room here, but he could always get one somewhere else, or come back later when the rabble had cleared out. Picking himself up unsteadily and making his way to the door seemed to take all the concentration he had, so he didn’t notice the group of men following him out until he was well into the dark of the Paris night. His senses did however give him enough warning to draw his sword before they could put a dagger in his back.

The fight hadn’t lasted long. Athos was good, he had learnt to use a blade from being a child and even drunk the movements were second nature. But he was out numbered severely, and even though he managed despatch three of them, the three that remained managed to take him down. Two held is arms, pinning him to the floor, while the other straggled his legs to keep him from kicking out. If the original plan had been to kill him quickly with a knife to the back it seemed it had been abandoned in favour of a more violent approach. Punches rained down on his face and torso as he struggled so hard to escape he heard his shoulder pop from the socket. But it was no use. Black spots danced at the edge of his vision and blood was dripping into his mouth. He knew he was about to die. They would beat him to death and strip his body before they throw him in the Seine, and it dawned on him that he didn’t care. He had given up on life the day he left la Fère, this would just be making it official. He could go, either to heaven to be with the brother he failed, or to hell, where at least the woman he still loved could keep him company. So he stopped struggling and waited for sweet oblivion.

What came instead was a mountain of a man, who hurled the one punching Athos into a wall so hard he was surprised it didn’t break under the pressure. He made short work of the other two, seemingly an experienced street brawler. The man on Athos’ left ended up with two broken arms in the river and the other was knocked out by a chunk of wood found in the street, aimed at his retreating back.

The mountain man then turned back to the bloodied mess on the floor. Athos was too drunk take much of him clearly, but his hands were warm and gentle as he helped him up.

“Easy does it, carful with yourself, I dare say the bastards broke a few bones,” his voice was gruff and deep, but friendly sounding, especially after he had turned the volume down from earlier. His fingers gently lifted Athos face into what little light there was. “You’ll be alright, I’ve seen worse, nasty head in the morning though. But judging by how you were going at it earlier it’s probably not going to make a difference. What’s your name?”

Athos, who had been staring of into the night of Paris wondering why a merciful God would insist on keeping him alive, snapped his attention back to the face in front of him. Two months in Paris and no one had asked him his name. What did he say? Comte de la Fère? No, he wasn’t that person anymore. Oliver, the name his mother had given him? No, not that either. He’d failed her the moment he let his wife slit one of her sons throats. He didn’t deserve that name any more. He looked up at the mountain of a man, whose expression was looking increasingly worried, desperately trying to think of something to say.

“Mountain…”

“What?”

He hadn’t meant to say that out loud and now the mountain man was looking at him as if he was crazy, so he had to think of something soon. There had been a little hill in the woods near le Fère nicknamed Athos’ mount. It was where he had met _her_. She had said he looked like a king to her, up on that hill, and she had called him Athos from time to time when they were alone, in homage to that day.

Why not, he thought bitterly. After all, this drunken, broken man was the one she had made of him.

“Athos,” he said slowly, speech a little slurred, and the other man raised his eyebrows, “It’s a mountain. In Greece,” he added by way of expiation and his rescuer set his face strait and nodded.

“Well then, Athos, where are you staying?”

Athos made an awkward gesture back to where they had both come from, wincing in pain as his arm jostled.

“Okay, first I’m going to pop that solder back in, which is going to hurt. Then I’m going to help you back to your room, and you’re going to try not to get beaten up in dark alley ways again, deal?”

Athos nodded, his head throbbing in protest. The mountain of a man gripped him tightly; one arm rapped round him, pushing on his shoulder blade from the back, the other hand on his shoulder at the front.

“Three, two, one,” there was a sickly noise as joint slid back into place, and the searing pain of it seemed to be the final straw for his beaten body. His consciousness left him and he slipped away into darkness.

When he woke in the morning with a head pounding from more than just the drink, he was in his bed at the inn. His boots and cloak were folded on a chair, though not very neatly, and his sword lent up against the side.


	2. Constance Vigilance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Athos gets some sense knocked into him.

The events at the riverside did change his routine somewhat, though it could hardly be said it was for the better. The anger that had been festering in him was diminished somewhat, but it had been replaced by an apathy and despair that as all together worse. He stopped getting thrown out of pubs and inns so much, and made a point of drinking in other establishments on nights he thought he might be bad, so that he could always return to the his room at the Inn by the Seine rather than sleep in the streets. This may have been an improvement, but wondering what it would feel like to breathe in water or put a bullet in his mouth was not. Something had clicked when those men had beat him, and it wasn’t just most of the bones in his right arm. He didn’t want to live anymore. He didn’t want to be alone. And his mind was slowly readying itself to do something about it.

So when he had seen three men set about a young woman in an alley way as he is heading out for the day, he didn’t think twice before throwing himself into danger.

She is putting up a quite fight by herself-one of them is already sporting a split lip- but it was clear she didn’t have any real experience with violence and it was three against one, with a hand over her mouth to stop her from screaming. Still he admires her for the fact she looks more angry than scared, eyes lit with rage as they start to pull on her cloths and dark hair.

The first went down easy, taken by surprise from behind and unconscious before he hits the ground. The other two, however, had time to draw their swords, and they had a decent amount of skill with them too. The fight that proceeded took all of his attention, the flurry of attacks and parries making feel more alive than he had in months. His heart beating fast, the pain in his arm from where he had been nicked by a blade, it all made the world seem more real. He managed to push one back with a powerful blow, and the woman, who really should have run by now, hit him over the head with an empty bottle she had picked up to defend herself. He crumpled to the ground, leaving the fight one on one.

By now they’re making quite a lot of noise and had attracted spectators. He even saw a couple of musketeers, who were stepping forward to help, but a hand gesture from the man who seemed to be in charge held them back. The older man’s eyes were keen on the fight, tracing every movement with an attentive eye.

The wound to his right arm was starting to smart a little with all the movement and his opponent could see it on his face, making him smile triumphantly at Athos, thinking he was going to win easily. Athos merely smiled back in kind and switched his sword to his left hand, continuing to fight with the same finesse. The other man’s smile faulted and became an angry sneer as he started to realise he was losing, trying increasingly dirty trick, which drew gasps from those gathered around. But Athos was the better fighter and within ten minutes the man was on the ground, disarmed and injured, though not mortally so. Athos already had enough blood on his hands.

The crowd erupting into applause took him by surprise. He’d almost forgot that there was any one else there. Turning, he quickly searched his surroundings for the woman who had been attacked, spotting her off to the side, still holding the broken bottle, watching the blood drip off it with glazed eyes.

“Mademoiselle, are you hurt?” his voice seemed to snap her from her retrieve, making her look up startled.

“I’m fine, thank you,” she said, before adding, almost as an after-thought, “and it’s Madame. Madame Bonacieux. I must thank you for intervening monsieur…”

“Athos,” he hesitated before replying, bowing his head politely in greeting, “Just Athos. And it was my honour to help defend you from these men Madame.”

“Those men were Ruben de Empury and two of his best.” Athos turned to see who had interrupted, and was only slightly surprised to find the man that had held back the musketeers earlier staring at him. A couple of the others were securing and arresting the three men, dragging them off to who knows where, but the older man bore them no interest, his full attention on Athos.

“Captain Traville,” Madame Bonacieux greeted the man, in part, Athos suspected, taking pity on him and his obvious lack of knowledge of whom he was speaking to. Traville for his part nodded at her briefly before again putting his focus once again on Athos.

“Empury is a dangerous criminal with a penchant for attacking young women, unusually at night, though he seems to be branching out.”

“You don’t say,” muttered Madame Bonacieux under her breath, but Traville ignored her and continued.

“My men have been tracking him for the past week, but when two of them cornered him the night before last he killed them, viciously and in cold blood.”

“My condolences Monsieur, I can’t imagine it would be easy to lose ones brothers-in-arms,” Athos said as he re-sheathed his sword and turned to face the other man full on.

“It not,” The Captain responded, “Though they died honourable deaths, and fought bravely, which is some comfort to those who require it. You see, even two on one the odds weren’t in their favour. Empury is considered by most the finest swords man in all of France.” He looked over to where his men were heaving the wounded criminal away, then back at Athos with a piercing stare. “That is, of course, until that title was stolen three minutes ago, by an injured man fighting with his left hand. That is quite a skill you have there. Ever thought of putting it to use doing more than rescuing damsels in distress? I could always use men of your ability.”

Athos incline his head to the side, taking in the man in front of him. Traville had the air of a seasoned soldier, which gave his presents gravitas, there was a scar next to his eye from some far gone fight and his gaze held the authority of his rank. He certainly didn’t look crazy, but appearances could be deceiving. After all, it sounded like he’d just offered him a job.

“Do you often offer random men you know nothing about commissions in the musketeers, or just the bleeding ones who are quite obviously hung over?” Traville raised an eyebrow in response.

“Actually, I mainly aim for those whom I think will make good soldiers, no matter where they come from,” The reply knocked Athos of balance; it hadn’t been what he had expected. He collected himself quickly.

“I am flattered by the offer but I am afraid I am otherwise involved at present.” The captain merely nodded.

“If you ever change your mind, come to the barracks and ask for me, I’ll stand by my offer.” He turned and nodded to the woman, “I hope you are not to shaken by the ordeal Madame, I will make sure to ask after your health when your husband delivers his fabrics on Wednesday. Good day to you both.” And with that he left, following his men away, Athos’ gaze at his back.

“Your arm’s bleeding.” Madame Bonacieux moved closer to Athos, pulling back his cloak in an attempt to get a better look as he tried to move away, wincing at the movement.

“It’s nothing, Madame, I assure you. It will stop soon,” but she got in his way as he attempted to leave, looking up at him kind, pleading eyes.

“Constance. You can call me Constance if I am to all you Athos. And at least let me clean it. My house is not far, and it’s the least I can do for you after all your help.” He held her gaze for a moment, but she did not seem the kind of woman to back down. There was steel in the depth of her soft eyes, and after a moment he acquiesced with a nod, following her out of the alleyway and into the bright streets of Paris.

                                                                                                ~*~                                                                           

Madame Bonacieux house was not large or grand, but it was warm and had an air of welcome about it. It remained Athos of the Gamekeeper’s cottage from when he was growing up. The Gamekeeper’s wife was a kind woman, and he and Thomas had often found themselves being patched up by her before there farther saw what trouble they got into. Constance herself remained him of her as well, firm but gentle and for the first time since arriving in Paris he felt a little home sick.

She had made him remove his shirt – “It’s a mess, even if you don’t count the large, bloody hole you just put in it. I’ll fine you a new one about here somewhere” – and was now, carefully as possible sweeping away blood and dirt from his wound. It stung, but it was bearable, and he sat in steady silence as she worked, looking out the window to his right. He had never been particularly social, and his two and a half month drinking spree had not helped his convocation skills, so he waited for her to start. It didn’t take long for the atmosphere of uncomfortable silence to get to her.

“I must thank you again for your help monsieur. I am sorry you could not except Captain Traville’s invitation to join the musketeers, I’m sure the streets of Paris would be an awful lot safer. Even if you didn’t deal with them personally, many men would be too terrified by your reputation as ‘the finest swords man in France’ to do anything.” She smiled at him from over his shoulder.

“You flatter me Madame; I hardly think I am that. There are too many talented men in Paris alone, never mind France.” He lowered his eyes away from her face. For some reason her smile was making his chest ache with a sadness that cut deeper that the wound in his arm. As if it had the audacity to remind him that there were still good people in the world and maybe he shouldn’t give up on it just yet.

“The Captain seemed to think you were pretty good, and he’s a man whose opinions a lot of people trust.” She’d finished cleaning his wound, drying it off before reaching for a bandage, “What other engagements do you have that keep you away from the life of a solider then?”

“It is not so much that I have other engagements as it is that I cannot commit myself to anything at present. I am much too unreliable.” The question had been asked in the spirit of friendliness, but given his response and his lack of eye-contact throughout it, Constance narrowed her eyes and set herself on a war path.

“Oh really, just planning to take as little care of yourself as possible for the foreseeable future then? Throwing yourself in to dangerous situations and getting drunk instead of doing something useful? The day I understand what goes on in men’s heads will be the day pigs fly!” She had taken to rather aggressively rapping his arm now, which would have been amusing if he wasn’t so shocked.

“I understand your point, Madame, but you must understand, I have done truly terrible things, this is nothing more than I deserve.” His voice was quiet, eyes still unable to quite meet hers.

“So past mistakes justify such self-destructive behaviour then? What would your mother think, seeing you in a state like this?” She was trying to get a rise out of him now, and it was working.

“Nothing, she’s dead.”

“Well so is mine, but I never doubted that she would still care if I took to reckless, stupid behaviour.” She tied off his bandage tighter than strictly necessary, making him wince at the combination of physical pain and harsh verbal truths. Turning away, Madame Bonacieux busied herself at the counter under the window, pointedly ignoring him.

Athos considered her words. Was there any real point in destroying himself when he could be being useful? The Musketeers could give him a purpose in life, maybe even give him a chance to atone for his sins. And dyeing in battle was a far more honourable way to go than putting a bullet in his brain. He turned it over in his mind, slowly warming to the idea of having a life with direction again. He was about to open his mouth to thank Constance for talking some sense into him, when she suddenly turned round and interrupted him.

“I’m sorry. I know it’s none of my business, and you save my life. But I have three brothers who are forever getting themselves into trouble, and whenever I see to men in that kind of state I just have this overwhelming need to…” She looked around, searching for the right word, “mother them I suppose, or at least try to knock some sense into them. I apologise for it.” She looked genuinely worried and upset, playing with the edge of the cloth in her hands and not looking him in the eye. Athos was a little taken aback.

“There are no apologies needed Madame. Nothing you said was untrue and all of it needed to be stated.  I can only offer you my sincere condolences for having to be the one to do it.” She looked up, a hopeful smile crossing her lips.

“So you’ll think about the Captains offer then.” He considered his answer for a second.

“I’ll go to the barracks tomorrow.” And she looked so pleased he couldn’t help but smile back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Constance Bonacieux, having none of your self deprecating shit since 1625. So much love for that woman.


	3. New Beginnings and Familiar Faces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Athos gets beat up a bit, but is happy about it.

Constance had tried to get him to stay the night but he politely declined. He’d already been enough of a burden on her hospitality for the time being. He did however ask one favour of her, and after she had produced a pen, some ink and a piece of paper, he set to work.

The letter was to his housekeeper and the instructions were clear. The house was to be shut with no view to him ever returning. The servants were to be given a sum of money deemed appropriate and dismissed, the horses sold and everything else was to remain where it was, shut behind closed doors. The housekeeper herself, and her husband, his former valet, were in charge of finances. They were to collect from the tenants, pay themselves and for whatever else the house needed, then put the rest away for if it was ever needed. He also gave them, with Constance’s permission, the Bonacieux’s address in case they desperately needed to contact him, only to be used in emergencies and with all letters addressed to Raoul de la Fère.

Everything was sorted; there was no reason for his old life to ever come back again. That was what he told himself the next morning as he headed for the musketeers garrison, off to a new life.

Captain Traville had hardly recognised him when he was shown into the man’s office.  For once he had kept the drinking to a minimum the night before, still more than most men but little enough to ensure he had a good night’s sleep and was functioning the next morning. He’d also taken a bath and neatened up his hair and beard so he looked less like a wild beast and more like a man. The cloak he had worn, which had a tendency to get in the way when fighting, had been traded in for a new, dark leather jerkin. It was simple but warm and well made, costing him most of the money he had left over from his drinking spree. Altogether he looked much more like a gentleman than he had the day before, and it took the Captain by surprise.

It was short lived however, and after a short discussion, mainly about what was expected of him and how long it was likely to be before he got an official commission, the captain took him out of the office and down to the courtyard below. It was filled with men, soldiers sparing each other, laughing, drinking and talking in groups around the sides. The sight of fresh meat seemed to distract them though.

“This is Athos.” Traville addressed the men around him, laying a hand on his shoulder as he was introduce, “I already know he’s a good swordsman but I need someone to put him through his paces with the rest , shooting, hand-to-hand and the like. Any volunteers?”

“I’ll do it,” A man stepped forward from the edge of the courtyard where he had been observing the fighting. He was tall and dark skinned, with a bandana coving most of his inky curls and a gold hoop in one of his ears. Athos could easily imagine the terror that he could inspire in a fight, but his face was split into an easy smile, making him seem, for now at least, entirely friendly.

“Athos, this is Porthos,” the captain introduced as the larger man made his way over, “He’s just been commissioned so he should still remember enough of this proses to have a little sympathy.” Turning to the other man- Porthos – he gave him a warning stare. “Just put him through his paces. I know you’re good at beating men with your bear hands but don’t overdo it. Bring him back in one piece, especially his sword arm.”

Porthos put a hand over heart in mock pain at his superior’s suggestion that he may be a bit over zealous. Athos personally thought that he may have been able to pull it off better if the grin he was wearing didn’t look quite so insincere.

“I’m wounded you would think such things of me captain.”

Traville merely rolled his eyes, and trudged back up to the stairs back to his office, his expression bearing a look more at home on a long suffering parent rather than the Captain of the most respected regiment in Paris.

Porthos turned back to him after watching the other man go, clapping him on the back hard enough to bring most men to their knees.

“Let’s get started then. This should be entertaining if nothing else,” he let out a laugh before pulling him off to the task at hand.

~*~

His first day training when fairly well over all. He got the feeling he was being used as amusement for the other men, he could feel their eyes on him the whole time and he knew for a fact some money had change hands, so he suspected they had been betting on him too. Luckily he didn’t have time to think about that as Porthos rigorously put him through his paces. He had had to demonstrate his skill at shooting, both with a musket and a pistol. His aim was good with both, hitting the target every time, though not the bull’s-eye. Next his seat on a horse was checked, an activity that was interrupted by Porthos taking the opportunity to almost run down a couple of Red Guards and blame it on ‘teaching the new guy how to stop a horse from trampling someone’.

They had lunch after that, a raucous affair with the Porthos and a few others swapping stories across the meal, every now and then yelling out to the men still training. After a few attempts to include him in the conversation they had given up, letting his sink into the background and observe the loud exchanges interspersed with laughter. At one point he caught himself smiling, warmed by the second hand camaraderie, and it was then he decided he was definitely staying. If nothing else, the company is far better than he’s had for a good long while.

After lunch was hand-to-hand combat. He will admit to being a little weary, Porthos was meant to be good, and even if he wasn’t, he was built like a mountain and could surly just flatten everyone who got in his way without effort. Also, of all forms of fighting, this is the one he has the least practice in. Hardly any till he came to Paris and starred in a few bar fights. The only time he’d used his fists before that had been on his nine-year-old brother when he was thirteen and he hardly thought that counted.

Still, he at managed to keep up at least. Porthos gave him a couple of bruised ribs and a right hook to the face, and of course won in the end, but it was a long and enjoyable fight. He survived it with his dignity and sword arm in tacked, which was more than he expected to start with.

Lastly, Porthos decided he’d like to see his ‘famous’ sword work. Apparently musketeers were terrible gossips, and news of yesterday’s fight with Empury had spread like wild fire. Most thought there had been some exaggeration, though after he dispatched the sixth musketeer in a row most agreed there hadn’t been. Athos enjoyed the fights, flexing his muscle after his long absents from physicality. His partner for the day seemed to enjoy it even more, having set up what looked like gabling ring based on the results of his sparing matches, laughing loudly every time Athos managed a particularly good hit.

By the time Captain Traville came to see him at the end of the day Athos was sweaty, tired and aching with a large bruise forming across his right cheek, but he felt better than he had in weeks. Even Porthos’ report on him-“Up to scratch on pretty much everything except his hand-to-hand, but I’ll be more than happy to help him practice,”-is good, if a little sinister with him grinning at the prospect of beating him up again. So he let himself join Porthos and his friend for a drink when they were all dismissed, feeling a little less empty for once.

It didn’t last long. An hour after entering the little pub near the barracks and the sorrow returns tenfold without the adrenalin to hold it off. He moved away from the others to his own table, ordering more wine as he went. He thought about his parents and his brother and _her,_ it’s always her he thinks of by the end of it. And he hated himself for loving her after all she did. And hated himself even more for all he did to her. And with ever thought there was another drink till his world started to blur around the edges and he could no longer ask for more wine.

It was at this point that Porthos came over and took his bottle away. He tried to take it back but Porthos was to large and solid to resist, so he found himself being half carried half dragged away from the wine and the pub, out into the night. He must have passed out at some point because he doesn’t remember much else.

It’s only in the morning, when he wakes up in his bed in the inn by the Seine, his boots and jerkin folded messily on a chair and his sword lent up against the side, that puts two and two together; that Porthos was the mountain of a man who saved him from the thugs by the river. And although he knew he was a drunken mess, he had volunteered to help him and had not asked questions, even when dragging him to bed for a second time.

And with that his respect for the man grows a little higher.


	4. Making Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Athos starts to make some friends despite not wanting to.

His first few months at the musketeers are a blur. Most of his nights are used to drowning his sorrow and all his days are taken up by training and going on missions, small to start with but by the end of his third month he was doing everything Porthos dose. Traville has seen fit to pair them up more often than not, his reasoning being that they cover each other’s weaknesses in combat. Athos suspects, though he has never said so out loud, that his real reason is that Porthos, out of all the men, is only one who has come close to cracking his armour. The others respect him, both in his talent with a sword and his self-imposed vow of silence when it comes to most things. Porthos however was having none of it.

He never did ask what made him waste his nights with drink, seeming to understand without it being said that that was across the line. Everything else however was fair game. And the man took it upon himself to drag Athos kicking and screaming out of his shell. It took a long time but by spring he had managed to include Athos in everything he was determined to avoid, from gambling sessions to birthday celebrations. He even managed to get him to crack a smile on occasion. Athos hadn’t been looking for friends when he had joined the musketeers, but it seemed Porthos was determined, and he was glad of that, even if he wouldn’t admit it.

Being somewhat friends with Porthos did have its down sided however, as he soon descovered. The man had both a blind hatred of red guards, like most of the musketeers to be fair, and didn’t mind starting fights. Athos however, when he was sober enough to think properly, did not start fight, in fact tried to avoid them at all cost. Which is why he had ignored the Red Guard calling him ‘a good for nothing baby musketeer they won’t even trust with a commission’ while he was getting a drink. Porthos, who had been playing cards at the next table, did not see fit to let it go as easily.

“That’s rich, coming from a member of the second rate soldier brigade.” Athos could feel the other man come up behind him, the picture of intimidation, and laid a hand on his arm to calm him. He’d had worse things said to him and he didn’t want this situation to escalate any further.

The Red Guard didn’t seem to have got that message though.

“I hardly think were the ones that are second rate after the filth Traville’s been handing commissions out to lately.” Porthos bristled.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, most think he’s gone mad, but we just think he’s collecting a set of delinquents. Now he’s got a drunk to go with his gutter rat,” the man laughed, not seeming to notice that Porthos was a lot bigger than him and Athos was now having to physically hold him back. He continued on oblivious to the danger, “I don’t think I would have been able to stand the shame of it, growing up in the court of miracles with harlots and beggars, but I suppose you don’t really see the problem if your mother was whore.”

This was the point at which Athos figured that letting go of Porthos so he could break the man’s nose didn’t really count as starting a fight. And, he concluded as pulled another red guard of his friends back, he may not start fights, but he’d sure as hell finish them.

They’d got into a lot of trouble for that; the Captain had not been at all impressed, chewing them out for a good hour on proper conduct. But all the other Musketeers thought it was excellent and insisted on Porthos telling the tale over and over again. The exaggerations kept getting bigger each time it was told, till he heard tell that he, Porthos and two others had single handily taken on twenty-eight Red Guards who had been slandering the King using only a candle, a fork, two bottles of wine and their fists, and one of the bottles of wine was used to toast their good work afterwards. He had a feeling Porthos was encouraging it, but there was no harm done, apart for them earning quite a reputation, so he let it go.

Life was better than it had been in a long time. He still had his bad nights, were the drink took over and he longed for it all to end, but they got fewer and fewer as he made a niche for himself among the musketeers.

~*~

At Easter the captain offered twenty-two of them the chance to go on a training exercise to Savoy. He let the men argue out between themselves who would be going, saying that he wouldn’t be responsible for choosing who would be bored out of their brains picking up all the extra shifts while the others were away. Athos had volunteered to stay behind, knowing more people wanted to go than there was space for, and he wasn’t really that bothered. One of the ones who did get to go, Aramis his name was, offered to swap with him if he liked, seen as he was newer and would probably benefit more from it that him, but Athos had declined. He knew Aramis’ friends where going and Porthos was not, besides he could use the practice in general duties as much as anything else.

Porthos had said he was staying the moment Athos did. Despite him not being commissioned yet and him having far less experience at being a soldier, Porthos had started to follow his lead a lot, especially while on the job. Apparently he made much more diplomatic decisions than Porthos who reportedly wanted to just ‘punch all the lazy sons of gits’ in most situations. It seemed to happen in the barracks as well, men listening to what he had to say when he said it, getting him to settle the odd argument because they knew he was fair and learning from him whenever he took the time to teach someone about swordsmanship. It was refreshing to be respected for himself rather than his title and he drunk it down, letting it start to fill the emptiness left in his sole.

On the Monday after twenty-two men left for Savoy the news arrived they were all dead. Over three months training with the Musketeers and Athos had never seen them quieter.

He was commissioned the same day, along with the other seven trainees, after which he and Porthos set off as part of the sombre delegation that were required to collect the bodies and look for some evidence to explain what happened. They found no evidence, just dead men and boys, disposed of in their own blood and left to rot in the sunlight. It had been almost three days by the time they arrived, and the stench was unbearable.

They had almost finished loading bodies on to the cart when he saw Josse. He had been young, twenty at most and all excitement at the prospect of the weekend away. He lay on the ground, throat slit, dead eyes still staring at the world. It was the exact possession he had found Thomas in, and suddenly it was all too much. He was almost on this exercise, if he had just taken Aramis’ place there would be one more man in the world that deserved to live rather than him. He didn’t, not after Thomas, not after her.

He stumbles of into the woods to collect himself and calm his breathing. After pulling himself together he was about to leave when he heard something; movement in the trees, the snap of a twig and then a groan of pain. He knew Porthos coming to collect him, that he should go, but instead he delved deeper into the woods, searching for the source of the noise. It happened again, a bit to the left and he turned to see a man in his shirt-sleeves, covered in blood propped against the tree.

He yelled for Porthos, running forward and falling down beside the man. It was Aramis, pale and injured. He had a nasty looking head wound, his side was bleeding and he was shaking from cold and shock but he was very much alive. Athos pulled of his cloak and wrapped it around the other man just as Porthos arrived.

Between the two of them they managed to get him back to the rest, held as gently as possible in Porthos’ arm as Athos held pressure on his wound. He had thrashed out at them to begin with, thinking they were his attacker come again, and it had caused his wound to open up again, covering him in fresh blood. They had managed to calm his somewhat, though it was hard to tell by how much with the delirium that seemed to have set about him.

Porthos flat out refused to put the man in the back of the carts with the bodies of the other musketeers, so after they had done what they could to patch him up he was hoisted on to a horse with Athos and Porthos’ taking turns to ride with him.

Even with the two of them pushing the horses faster than the others to get the man back to help it was still a long ride home. Once while with Athos he had awoken in fits, yelling and scrabbling with his hands. Athos hadn’t known what to do at first, but wrapped one arm around him to keep him still so he could continue to ride. That had only made him worse, working himself into a panic and scaring the horse. In the end he’d only managed to calm him by talking softly to him in his ear like he did when his little brother used to have night terrors. He kept it up till his throat was dry, speaking of everything and nothing, just so he’d know he was not alone, and Porthos follows his example when they swapped again.

By the time they get to Paris they’re both exhausted, but Aramis is now clinging to Porthos’ shirt for dear life, so instead of handing him off to the surgeon they carry him up stair to sick rooms themselves and stay with him while he is treated. It takes two days till he’s in a fit state to tell the captain what he remembers, a week before he can return to his own rooms and a month before he can return to duty.

Athos and Porthos stay through it all, taking turns at his bed side. They would talk or play card, anything to distract him from memories of his dead friends. When Athos took the night shift he would bring wine and they would drown their sorrows together in companionable silence. And at the end of it Athos would pretend not to see the tears in Aramis’ eyes and he would in turn ignore Athos clinging to his locket like it had the power to undo the past. Porthos would, like he had done with Athos, pretend not to see any sign of weakness or emotional distress until his help was needed, then gave it without reserve, whether it be waking him from nightmares or helping him eat when his hands shook too much to hold a spoon.

Slowly the man got better and better, recovering not just from the physical injuries but also the mental scaring. And as he began to improve Aramis started developed quit a rapport with the both of them.  What had been two men’s mission to save the comrade they found bleeding in the woods gradually developed in to a steady, if begrudged on Athos’ part, friendship, two companions becoming three without much effort.

It was defiantly begrudged on Athos’ part though. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Aramis, he had a great respect for the man and any friend of Porthos’, which he defiantly was by now, was a friend of his. It was just that Aramis liked to know things. He never asked the direct questions ( _Why do you drink so much? What’s with the locket? Where do you come from and what happened to you)_ but he often picked at him for information during conversations, coming up with wild theories then trying to prove them. He didn’t always mind so much, there was the week Aramis was convinced he was an escapee from a monastery because he had let slip he could read and write Latin, which had been highly amusing. He’d and Porthos even put a crucifix on the wall of his lodgings to encourage him. Other times where not so amusing however.

They were interviewing a pretty young widower about a robbery. Despite Aramis’ best effort she only seemed interested in attempting to flirt with Athos which was not particularly well received, especially she had taken it upon herself to pull at the locket round his neck and tell him not to worry about who ever gave him that old thing, she wouldn’t tell if he didn’t. It was after a polite but hasty retreat from the house that Aramis formed a new theory about Athos. Since he had spurned the advances of a truly lovely young lady it was obvious that it was not ladies Athos had a taste for. He was pointedly ignored, as was Porthos booming laugh, but after a day of comments like ‘we’re all soldiers, it’s not like it isn’t something we’ve heard of before’, ‘He’s cute, do you want us to interview him so you can flirt?’ and ‘If you had to pick would it be me or Porthos?’ Athos had had enough. They were sitting in a tavern after calling it a night on catching the thief when he finally snapped and offered up the only piece of information he ever would on the subject.

“There was a woman. She died.”

He didn’t stay to see the looks of surprise and pity, instead downing his drink before heading to the bar for more. He spent the rest of the night drinking on his own till he could no longer walk strait, at which point Porthos and Aramis-surprisingly he hadn’t wondered off to one of his mistresses like usual-carried him back to his bed.

In the morning Aramis chucked Athos a scarf at breakfast.

“To cover up the chain, if you don’t want lonely widows tugging on it,” was the only expiation offered, and Athos accepts the gift, along with the unspoken apology. After that Aramis no longer attempts to find out anything Athos doesn’t want to tell. He has, and always will be, a truth-seeker, but it seems while he will continue on despite hints, requests and out right orders, lost love is something he respects. And in turn Athos starts to feel a little more attached to the man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost done now. Please feel free to tell me what you think, and know that reviews, kudos and even just reading this earns you virtual cookie.


	5. Finding Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Athos relapses, Porthos knocks some sense into him and Athos makes a promise to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last part! Thank you to all those that commented and left kudos, you really made my day. Special thanks to laced-with-fire over at FanFiction.net who beta-ed this chapter for me. On with the show!

Aramis makes them all buy hats. He lost his at Savoy, and though Athos understands that it's part of the healing process, that it has taken him months to even think about replacing it, he still doesn't see why he and Porthos need one. But they humour him, letting him drag them round trying on hat after hat. He tries to convince Athos to buy a ridiculous thing, blue with peacock feathers, but instead a simpler hat is purchased, much to Aramis' disappointment. Porthos does buy the hat Aramis picks though, which that cheers him up no end. It would have looked ridiculous on a lesser man, but everything about Porthos is larger than life so it seems just right. Aramis himself takes a good two hours choosing, saying that it had to be just right, and earning him many rolled eyes from the other two. He finally picks a pale grey-blue one, which Porthos laughs at, saying it will be black with dirt by the end of the week. Aramis, in his new found love for his head wear, takes it as a threat rather than a passing comment and spends the rest of the trip back to the garrison 'protecting' it, while Porthos attempts to get mud on it. Athos wanders behind them, smile on his face, wondering what he ever did to deserve them.

It's well into the afternoon by the time they get back and Athos decides to depart from the others and use the rest of his day to visit Madame Bonacieux, who he hasn't seen in weeks. His good mood vanishes however when Constance hands him a letter and package addressed to Raoul de la Fère as soon as he is through her door. He cuts short his visit, barely staying ten minutes, and takes both back to his room to open them up.

They are from his housekeeper, who informs him that a bad storm had caused some of the roof to cave in. There had been little damage considering, it had only been a storage area in the loft and almost everything was fixed by now. The only thing that still remained to be put right was a family heirloom that had been hit by a falling tile and would require specialist work. They had thought it best to send it on to him to get mended in Paris.

The family heirloom was a sword from the time of King Francis I, passed down over the generations. The hilt, that was embossed and set with jewels, now had a sizeable dint in it. When they were little he and Thomas used to stare at it and discuss how one day they would be brilliant fighters and use a sword as fine as that one. It had hung on the wall in one of the upstairs rooms of the house for over a hundred years, but she had decided the room would be better serviced with the family portraits on the wall, so it had gone into storage. Thomas had been furious, and they had argued about it at length, but he had, as always, come down on the side of his wife. Looking at it now, damaged and scratched, he feels guilt stab at his heart.

He spends the rest of the day thinking about Thomas and his dead family and her. And once he's in the pit of despair other thoughts come as well, how he should have been at Savoy, how he should have died or at the very least the nightmares that still plague Aramis should be his. His friend should never have been there, it should have been him. He deserves it. And he definitely doesn't deserve the loyalty and friendship he has been given in the past six months. It was all wrong. Even after all that had changed, becoming a musketeer, meeting Porthos and Aramis and Constance, he is still the same broken fool, beyond repair and letting those around him become damaged.

By the time is friends come to check on him that night he is drunker than he has been in weeks. His eyes are red from weeping, locket in one hand, loaded pistol in the other; ready to depart this world for the next. It takes Aramis twenty minutes to talk Athos into lowering it from his temple and in the end Porthos knocks him out cold to stop him from hurting himself.

When he wakes in the morning, Aramis politely informs him that he is on leave for the next week. They are rationing his alcohol supply, his weapons have been relocated and he is being watched by one or the other of them at all-times until he manages get his head sorted out, lest he do anything stupid. And this routine is followed for the next three days by an overly chipper Aramis and a silent Porthos whose behaviour he can only describe as sulking. Athos himself is grumpy and ungrateful through the lot of it, until Porthos finally snaps and gives him a good telling off.

"Do you have any idea what you put us through? Got a nice long list of reasons you hate yourself, do you? Why don't you add selfish to the list, it defiantly belongs on there after this!" It takes Athos almost a full minute to get over the shock of been yelled at and start processing what was said, by which time Porthos rant is in full swing. "And don't look so bloody shocked, there is nothing about what you were doing that wasn't entirely selfish, getting rid of your own misery only to add to someone else's. Aramis has been practically pulling his hair out and you know how fond he is of his hair. He's just lost twenty-one friends, just stopped having nightmares of them dying and you want to put him through it again? You're either mental or cruel, I haven't decided which yet. He's been bloody praying for you and you've been acting like a spoilt child because we wouldn't let you blow your brains all over the wall.'

"Let me tell you something about taking your own life; and it's not the bullshit they try to sell you at church about eternal damnation. I've seen people, in the court, who decide they've had enough, and when it's all said and done with they're dead, whatever it was doesn't matter to them anymore. It's the people they leave behind that suffer, more than you can imagine, their friends and their family and how dare you almost do that to us!" By the end of it he has Athos by the shirt, shaking him bodily and lifting him of the bed, before dropping him and storming out the door. He slams it so hard Athos is surprised it doesn't fall off the hinges.

When an angry looking Aramis brings Porthos back an hour later he's got out of bed for the first time in days. He has washed, changed and is sat at the table eating the meal he refused earlier. It is the closest thing to an apology he ever manages as they never talk about it again, but Aramis is overjoyed and even Porthos looks a bit less like he's about to punch something.

The rest of his leave is taken with grace, as are the restrictions his friends have placed on him. He also takes the time to get the sword he received fixed, and hangs it on the wall of his room to remind himself of the incident, and the family and friends he would be letting down if it happened again. Like it or not he has people who care about him and he will not hurt them again if he can help it.

It's another half a year before he realises what he put them through. Aramis goes missing for twenty minutes in the middle of a fight and Porthos is injured, leaning on him heavily and there is so much blood. For one very real moment he thinks he's lost them both and it scares him more than almost anything he's ever experienced. So later, when Aramis has found them again and they have gotten Porthos to safety so he can be stitched up, he makes himself a promise. He will not fail another brother, so he will protect them both in any way he can till the end of his days. They are his family after all.


End file.
